


Of Love and War

by recklessiris



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood, M/M, Violence, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-03-18 17:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3578586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recklessiris/pseuds/recklessiris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the secret of Italy's surrender is found out, Feliciano is captured and brought to a German military base to be interrogated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He kicked the smaller, weaker, Italian nation in the ribs, and heard something crunch. He saw his prisoner flinch, heard him yelp in pain, but Ludwig convinced himself the sickened feeling he got was satisfaction. This wasn’t his fault, Veneziano had been the one to betray him. This wasn’t his fault.

Veneziano.

North Italy.

Feliciano.

Ludwig tried to dehumanize him into a nation, and not the carefree, innocent individual he had gotten to know so well. The man who wanted nothing more than for the war to end peacefully, for there to be no more bloodshed. The German didn’t understand how someone who had seen such death and rebirth and war could be so full of life, so pure. 

Feliciano hauled himself to sit up again, holding onto his side with a hand that already had two broken fingers. He looked up at Ludwig, his amber eyes open, warm, inviting. After all he had been put through, after everything, he was not angry. He was scared, of course, but there was no trace of rage or hate in him.

“It doesn’t have to be like this anymore, Ludwig.” Feliciano told him kindly, “You can stop fighting now.”

Ludwig didn’t say anything back, afraid that if he opened his mouth he would say something that would only encourage Feliciano’s soft, forgiving words. He knew he was losing the war, knew that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to pull himself out of the slump he was in. 

When he had found out about Italy’s secret surrender and alliance with the Allies, he had been livid. But now, no matter how hard he tried to summon that rage back, it simply turned into self-disgust. He was horrible, terrifying, monstrous. He was not deserving of the love and innocence that was sitting before him, begging for him to simply stop all of this.

Really, Ludwig should’ve known better than to trust him. He had left in the Great War; it was only natural that he would leave now. Feliciano sided with those who could best protect him, who could defend him and his people. And it was clear to see that the German was no longer on that list. 

“It’s okay.” The Italian said, stretching out a hand, “It’s okay.” 

Ludwig stared at the slightly tanned fingers that reached for him, forgave him, absolved him of all the awful things he had done. But it was not okay; it wouldn’t be okay for a very long time. Until after this war was over, and then some. He was not allowed to surrender, not even when soldiers died like flies and Berlin was being destroyed. His city beautiful city, his beautiful people. What had become of them?

The longer he gazed at Feliciano’s hand, the more morbid and sickening his thoughts became. He could break those fingers. It would be easy, like snapping sticks, and there would be nothing that Feliciano could do to fight back. He could permanently terrify him, he could cause the Italian to fear him until their countries crumbled and they were allowed to rest in peace. 

This wasn’t about Feliciano and Ludwig.

This was about Italy and Germany.

He had repeated those words over and over again, until it became easier to kill the traitorous Italians. He distracted himself; he did not let himself think of anything else other than his people, his pride, his nation. And if he had to destroy Italy for Germany’s safety, then he would do it. He didn’t sleep unless he was completely exhausted. The thoughts he had before he drifted off were simply too much for him to listen to without going insane.

“You have no idea.” Hissed Ludwig, looking away. Feliciano slowly let his hand drop, a small, sad smile on his face.

“It’s an empire you want, isn’t it?” He asks tentatively, his eyes closed, tears brimming at the edges.

The German was surprised with how perceptive Feliciano could be, but he always got the feeling he listened more than he let on. But why was he shaking, why did he look like he was about to weep? Why was he clutching at his chest and not looking at Ludwig?

“Of course.” He answered simply, warily. Didn’t all nations want that? Glory, fame, power? 

“Don’t,” Feliciano whispered painfully, “Don’t take this away from me.”

And then he broke down into sobs, holding onto the old, steel cross around his neck like it was a lifeline, unable to catch his breath with how distraught he was. Ludwig struggled not to wrap his arms around the smaller man’s shoulders, to tell him that he wouldn’t leave, that he wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t try to become an empire, a feeling that was so odd and exhilarating but so very familiar at the same time.

He forced himself to stand there, stoic, as the Italian wept in complete sorrow that Ludwig could not understand. He made himself think off everything that had happened between them, of how Feliciano had betrayed him so easily, like it was nothing. Like he was nothing. He did not allow his treacherous emotions get to him.

“You left me.” He growled out, feeling the familiar pain in his chest.

“I d-didn’t, I didn’t want to, but Ludwig, too many had died.” Feliciano sobbed, “So many had died.”

Excuses, he told himself. Feliciano always had his excuses, always had his lies. He never cared, and Ludwig couldn’t afford to either. This was war, people died everyday. Germans, Italians, Russians, Americans, Brits. Bullets didn’t discriminate. He couldn’t let Feliciano crawl back into his good graces just because he wanted to believe him, so badly. 

Feliciano suddenly looked up again, gazing into his eyes with so much love and remorse that Ludwig had to do something about it, before he gave in. He grabbed the front of his torn black shirt, forcing him to stand even though he was struggling with a hurt ankle, before wrapping one strong, suffocating hand around his neck and pinning him to the concrete wall. 

The fight that had seemed to be buried deeply in Feliciano kicked in immediately as he clutched at Ludwig’s hand, trying to beg for him to stop. He kicked his legs weakly, a natural reaction from loss of oxygen. But with each move, he became more exhausted, until his limbs were barely twitching. Ludwig studied him, counting to distract himself from the way the look in Feliciano’s eyes wounded him. Even if nations did revive after death, it didn’t make it any less terrifying. 

When he reached two minutes and forty-five seconds, he let the smaller nation go, nearly throwing him to the floor. He gasped for breath, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. When he finally regained his normal breathing, he looked cautiously over to the German.

“Ludwig?”

Nothing. 

“Ludwig?”

He refused to say anything back.

“Lud-“

Feliciano did not get the chance to finish. Ludwig suddenly had a crowbar in his hand, and the impact of it hitting his shoulder and the pain that spread through his body cut him off. He instantly rolled onto his back, clutching the shattered bone. 

Ludwig did not stop, he couldn’t stop. He felt blood spatter on his face and heard the screams of pain as he attempted to break every bone in the Italian’s body, but he felt like he could control his anger no longer. That was the point of this interrogation anyways, wasn’t it? To make Feliciano fear him?

He wasn’t sure how long the merciless beating went on. It could have been five minutes, but it could have been five hours. Eventually, Feliciano’s body went limp and his eyes became dull. He didn’t stop, not until five other soldiers, including his brother, rushed in, prying the weapon away from his hands and forcing him to snap out of his enraged trance.

“Ludwig! Ludwig stop, he’s dead!”

“Commander, please-“

“Give me the fucking crowbar for gods sake!”

“Commander!”

“Please calm down!”

“Ludwig!”

It’s the hard smack across the back of his head that brings him back to reality. Feeling his brother relax, Gilbert gently let him go as he stared at the bloody mess that had been Feliciano. He had seen Ludwig bad, angry, livid, but he had never seen him snap so badly as to murder the person he cared about most deeply. 

As he came back to his senses, Ludwig realized how brutal he had been, how violent, as he saw Feliciano lying there, motionless. His limbs were bent at unnatural angles, one arm bone sticking out. One eye was so badly injured that he couldn’t even tell it had been there. The other was dull, no glow or glint to it. There was blood everywhere, on the walls, on Ludwig, on the crowbar, but mostly on Feliciano. It stained his lips and ran down his chin, it soaked through his tattered shirt; it surrounded him in a growing puddle.

It was the most horrific thing Ludwig had encountered.

“Mein gott…” He whispered quietly, unable to form any other words.

“He’s dead, Ludwig. He’s gone.” Gilbert told him, trying not to startle his brother.

Ludwig felt like he was going to pass out. He had never lost control like this; he had never felt this sort of urge. His intentions were never this destructive, this disgusting. He was revolting, repulsing. He never had felt so much hatred for himself before.

“What should we do with the body, Sir? Burn it?” One of the officers asked, looking to Gilbert.

“No, just take him to the infirmary. He’ll heal up eventually.” He sighed

“But Sir, wouldn’t that allow the Italians an advantage?” The officer asked.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware I asked a question, Fleischer. Take him to the goddamn infirmary, now.” Gilbert growled, “He’ll revive himself even if we do burn him, it will just take him a little longer to reform a body than usual. But with the beating he’s received, I doubt he’ll be up and about any time soon.”

The soldiers did as they were told, picking up Feliciano’s body and taking it out of the room. Ludwig followed them with his blue eyes, staring at the door as it shut. Gilbert looked around the room, running a hand through his hair.

“Goddamn, Ludwig.” He said, taking in the horrific stench and sight. It was all he could really say. His brother had always been collected and serious. To see him in such a state was unsettling, to say the least. 

“He’s dead.” Ludwig breathed, barely choking the two words out.

“He’ll come back.” Gilbert replied, but he didn’t sound very confident.

“He’ll hate me forever.”

Gilbert didn’t reply. He’s not one for lying, and was all too familiar with the way loss felt. 

He turned away from the bloodbath, looking to his younger brother and seeing that he had red all over him as well. He needed rest, if he stayed in here much longer, it would probably suffocate him. Trying not to seem forceful, Gilbert walked to the door.

“You need sleep, Ludwig. Come on.” 

“I need to stay here.”

Gilbert sighed, knowing how his brother preferred this, preferred feeling aching pain rather than feeling nothing at all. Even though he buried his feelings for Feliciano under hundreds of pounds of bullets and steel and straight faces, he wasn’t fooling his brother, who had known him long enough to recognize these little subtleties in Ludwig. 

The wars had been so hard on him. Gilbert knew that his brother wanted help people, wanted to be good. But the ideals of the Nazi’s had him so mixed up, and when they said they could help the starving, the poor; it all seemed like such a good idea. But what he was facing was far from nice. It was an absolute nightmare. 

“This’ll only make things worse for you.” Gilbert told him, leaning against the doorframe.

“It’s not going to clean itself.” Ludwig said, but the protest was weak and he sounded broken.

“You’re right, it’s not. I’ll find some soldiers to do it tomorrow morning. Come on, you’re going to bed.” Gilbert insists.

Reluctantly, Ludwig drew away from the bloodstained room and followed his brother out of the makeshift prison of the military base. Before Ludwig turned to go to the showers, his brother stopped him, telling him to get some rest after he got cleaned up, and that he would handle everything else in the morning, so Ludwig could sleep in. At first, he had refused, saying he needed to command his soldiers, but Gilbert had been adamant. 

As Ludwig watched Feliciano’s blood run off of his hands, out of his hair, away from him with the hot water, he wondered just what had made him snap. What could’ve made him black out into such a rage and do something so horrible? How would Feliciano ever forgive him?

And then he came to the heart stopping, blood freezing conclusion that what he had told his brother was true. Feliciano would hate him forever. There would be no more bright, cheerful laughter that had distracted him from the horrors of war. There would be no more grieving tears to wipe away when the Italian saw his men dead. There would be no more calm, content smiles directed at Ludwig, to bring him out of his bad moods, whether he wanted to be in them or not.

Feliciano was emotional and expressive in everything he did. So surely his fear for Ludwig would be no different. It would not be the same fear he felt when he realized just how strong the German military was. Of course, Feliciano was afraid of the power it held, but he was not necessarily afraid of Ludwig himself. Now he had experienced just what Ludwig did to the people he treasured: he pushed them away, hurt them, destroyed them.

When he saw Ludwig after this war was over, he would back away, horrified. He would run from the monstrosity that had gone so far as to kill him. He would be repulsed, terrified. If Ludwig even dared to try to speak to him again, Feliciano’s voice would quiver, if he answered. He would seek safety in someone else, someone more trustworthy and gentle than the German could ever hope to be. 

When the water finally changed from scorching his skin to nearly causing hypothermia, Ludwig got out of the shower. He felt incredibly numb, like he was walking around in some horrible nightmare that had yet to seize. Surely, he couldn’t of done that to Feliciano; this had to just be a dream.

Those hopes were quickly dashed when his head hit the pillow and he realized that no, this was very much his reality. He had murdered Feliciano, killed him like it had been pure instinct. 

Staring at the ceiling of his small room, Ludwig accepted something he had pushed aside for years, decades. He was in love with him, with the Italian who danced into his life and earned his trust faster than anyone else had. He had even been suspicious of Gilbert as a child, but Feliciano had seemed so innocent, so wonderful, that Ludwig could never imagine hurting him. 

The realization did not hit him like a ton of bricks, it was not shocking. The feeling seeped into him and made the numbness melt away into something much more painful. He had felt guilt, but this was so much more than guilt. This was the feeling of losing love, of yearning for something that would never return to him. 

The weight of the war then decided that it was a perfect time to strike. There had been so many losses lately, too many, and with the arrival of the Americans, there would only be more. Once France was liberated, and he was sure it would be, it would all be over. This war would soon draw to a close, and his people would be right back where they had began; broke, starving, and suffering. 

He would lose everything that ever mattered.


	2. Chapter 2

When his brother quietly pulled him aside nearly a month after Feliciano’s death, Ludwig was hardly expecting the news he was given. Feliciano had been revived, and though very injured, was going to recover just fine. Even his eye, which had looked nearly irreparable, was said to have been healing perfectly. 

Instead of pulling him out of the melancholic mood he had been in for the past three and a half weeks, it only made Ludwig’s blood freeze over. He had done his best to push what he would say to Feliciano after he woke up into the deepest corners of his mind, so that those thoughts could only bother him when he was nearly asleep, and into his dreams.

Really, they were more like nightmares. His memory forced him to watch the scene play over and over again while he was unconscious. He woke up nearly every night sweating, cold, and panicked. Surely, surely there couldn’t of been that much blood, surely that was just his imagination over-exaggerating the event. But deep inside, he knew that the scene that haunted him was completely accurate, all the way down to that bone that stuck out of Felicano’s arm.

He knew he couldn’t stay away; it would never be that easy. He couldn’t just avoid Feliciano until the war was over and for many years after that. No, he had to see the Italian, had to feel something other than numbness, even if it did mean pain. He deserved it, he told himself, he deserved to feel what he had done to the person he loved most, even if it was only emotionally. If he could have it his way, he would just let Feliciano take a crowbar to his body, let him do the same that Ludwig had done to him. He knew that would never happen though, the Italian was much too kind to do such a thing. 

Perhaps that was why Ludwig cared for him so much. He was pure, innocent, loving. He would never want to harm someone the way Ludwig had harmed him. He had so much love and hope to give that it was hard for others to see that he was also complex. Feliciano wasn’t elated all the time, Ludwig knew that from the numerous nights he had taken night watch and Feliciano decided to stay up with him. At some point, he would lose the nearly blinding smile and would recall darker events, battles much too recent and much too bloody. 

_“I pray that this war is quick.”_

Feliciano did not ask for glory or rewards. He did not want to bask in the riches that he would have if the war were won by the Axis. He simply wanted the war to be over as soon as possible, with as little casualties as possible. It often puzzled Ludwig, how Feliciano had not been affected by his leader like he himself had been. Perhaps it was because the German people had been poisoned by the sweet words of the Nazis, while the Italians were struggling against the Fascists every chance they had. 

The German debated an entire week over what to say to Feliciano. By that time, apologies were useless. It would sound like a blatant lie, like a joke. And how could Feliciano forgive him, after what he had done? It was hopeless, terribly, utterly, hopeless.

On the seventh night, the last night, Ludwig simply gave up, which was not something he did often at all. He surrendered to Feliciano, told himself that when they saw each other, he would know what to say. He also knew, deep inside, he was lying to himself, but he was rather good at it by now.

The next morning, he walked to the infirmary, a nervous tremble in his hands that he tried to ignore. He hoped in vain that the Italian would be asleep; he was never much for mornings anyways. And he was probably even more tired from recovering. If he were still sleeping, Ludwig would just visit him for a moment, just to see him, and then leave, satisfied. 

However, fate was usually cruel to Ludwig, and so though he hoped for Feliciano to never know of his visit, he was aware that things would probably not turn out the easy way. He ignored this very real probability and continued on his way, trying to think of anything except amber eyes and slightly tanned skin and bright smiles that could challenge the sun. 

When he reached the door to the room where Feliciano was located, he stood outside for a long while, debating how important it even was to do this. He could just leave. He could never visit him, and nobody would even know, nobody would ever call him a coward. But Ludwig had to know, had to see what pain his own two hands had caused. 

Quietly, with a shaking hand, he turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, walking inside the bleached room. The man lying in the hospital bed was not asleep, as Ludwig had hoped, but very awake, and very aware of the German who had stepped inside the room. The door swung close, but Ludwig did not move from his spot beside it.

Feliciano looked scared, petrified, but Ludwig could not tear his eyes away from him. Thousands of emotions that had been hidden away for a month came rushing back, but the words that Ludwig had told himself he would find were not there. 

Feliciano’s right arm was in a cast, and he could see bandages peeking out from the collar of his medical gown. His right eye had seemed to heal, but Ludwig was glad that blankets covered his legs, for seeing much else would probably cause him to break down. How could he of done that? What could’ve made him do that? 

The Italian, terrified, gaped at him with large, amber eyes. Ludwig just barely noticed that he was slightly trembling, probably in fear that he would be tortured all over again, in this very room, staining these white walls with red. 

“I-I’m sorry,” He said softly, stumbling over his words, “Please don’t hurt me, I-I’m sorry.” 

Something snapped, in Ludwig, but not in the way it had before. A dam had crumbled somewhere, and now his emotions hit him at full force. His heart felt like it had stopped, because Feliciano was absolutely scared to death of him, but there was no hatred, and for some reason, Ludwig wanted to be hated. He wanted to be despised; he deserved it after what he had done.

Why was his vision blurry, and why were his cheeks wet? Oh god, he was crying, sobbing, weeping, wanting to be despised, but begging for forgiveness. Pleading for absolution, to be purified from what horrid atrocities he had committed, but imploring Feliciano to punish him with hate and rage. 

Stumbling, hardly seeing, he dragged himself to the edge of Feliciano’s bed, who now looked more alarmed than scared, and dropped to his knees beside it, surrendering. Feliciano could’ve pulled out a gleaming scalpel that he had managed to steal from one of the doctors; he could’ve grabbed Ludwig’s hair and yanked it backwards until his neck was exposed. He could’ve ran the knife all over his throat until he found the vein he was searching for, and Ludwig would allow it. He wouldn’t struggle, he wouldn’t fight, and he would let Feliciano hurt him until he was satisfied. 

But Ludwig was once again reminded that Feliciano was much like an angel in the way that he didn’t hurt those beneath him, even if they were terrible, horrid people. He did not hate Ludwig for what he had done to him, he was scared, confused, but there was no trace of animosity in the Italian. 

After a while of just weeping there beside the bed, not looking at Feliciano, Ludwig felt something very tentative and gentle touch his hair. Fingers ran through it, messing it up, but Ludwig didn’t care, couldn’t care. Not when Feliciano was so wonderful and generous and kind, giving him the forgiveness he pleaded for but did not deserve. 

He allowed Feliciano to continue, only daring to look up after sobbing for a good ten minutes. When he did, the brunette was not looking at him, but rather at the bleached wall, as if it were a window, and he was studying the street outside of his office in Venice. His expression was serious, one that Ludwig knew was rare, because he could count the number of times he’d seen it on one hand. 

“You’re terrified, aren’t you?” He asked softly, continuing to gaze at the wall, continuing to run his fingers through Ludwig’s hair as if he were as fragile as glass.

“Yes.” Ludwig answered, because it’s all he could manage to say in that moment. He sounded exhausted, even if Feliciano should’ve been the tired one. 

Feliciano turned to look at Ludwig, and the German wasn’t fast enough, didn’t have his guard up, and got caught in his eyes, trapping him like animal. But he wasn’t scared of Feliciano; he didn’t feel like he was being hunted or manipulated. Instead, he was too fascinated with all of the emotion that could be conveyed with those amber eyes to do anything but gaze right back.

Ludwig didn’t know why he didn’t flinch when Feliciano’s hand slipped from his hair to gently brush the tears away from his face. He certainly wasn’t expecting Feliciano to touch him at all, much less run his fingers across his cheekbone. It had to be a trick, surely the Italian was planning to hurt him, perhaps poke his eye out. 

But when fingertips neared the edge of his eyes, and Ludwig braced himself for pain, Feliciano only tenderly wiped the tears away there and laughed softly, returning the hand to Ludwig’s blonde hair. It had been so long since anyone had shown him any mercy or forgiveness that he had forgotten that those things even existed.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Ludwig.” Feliciano told him, and it was supposed to sound comforting, but it only caused pain. 

“You should want to.” Ludwig whispered back, “You should.”

“Why?” The Italian asked, like he really didn’t know, like he was really that innocent.

“B-Because I hurt you, I _killed_ you. Aren’t you angry? You’ve been dead for nearly a month, why don’t you hate me?”

Feliciano gazed at him, brushed his hair away from his forehead, let it fall back in place. He then sighed, and took his hands away from Ludwig, distancing them from each other again, contemplating over what to say. 

“I don’t remember very much,” He spoke quietly, “I blacked out after a while. But I don’t think you wanted to do it, I don’t think I you ever wanted this. I can’t hate you for what the events in your nation cause you to do.”

Ludwig hung onto his every word, feeling himself being torn apart and put back together as Feliciano spoke. He felt like breaking down all over again, because he was so incredibly grateful and thankful and indebted. He shouldn’t have been forgiven; he should’ve been hated, despised. But Feliciano was giving him another chance, another-

“But that doesn’t mean I can trust you.” The Italian suddenly said, looking down at his hands and not at Ludwig.

It took a moment for the weight of Feliciano’s words to hit him, but when they did, Ludwig felt like if he had been standing, he would’ve stumbled. Of course, of course this wasn’t a pardon, of course this wasn’t another chance. This was forgiveness, but this was still fear and uncertainty, because even Feliciano knew that Ludwig was terribly dangerous and unstable. This was his way of saying _please stay away from me so that never happens again_.

Feliciano wasn’t angry, but he was aware that Ludwig was monstrous. He knew that nothing good could come from being allied with him. He was losing the war anyways, why would the Italian stay? He was smart enough to take the chance when the Allies offered him one; he just wasn’t fast enough to flee before the German soldiers captured him, and so he had ended up a tortured prisoner. 

“Do you want me to leave you be?” Ludwig asked softly, but he already knew the heartbreaking answer. Why had he done this to himself? What did he think could be gained from visiting Feliciano? 

He didn’t want to be anywhere near Ludwig, obviously. He horrified him, sickened him. Why would Feliciano ever want to see him again, after the things Ludwig had done? It was stupid, stupid to assume that they could ever be friends again, that things would ever be the same. 

“Yes,” Feliciano answered, sounding like he might cry, “I’m so sorry.” 

Quietly, Ludwig forced himself to stand up and back away from the bed, while every fiber of his soul told him to get back down on his knees and _beg_ for absolution. He turned away, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the Italian, who still refused to look at him, his hands in knots. Ludwig walked to the door, but paused as his hand came to rest on the knob, and for some horrid, masochistic reason, he decided to say something else.

“Do you want me to send my brother from now on?” He questioned, bracing himself for the answer.

It was quiet for a moment, and Ludwig wished Feliciano would just answer, so he could be killed quickly. It wasn’t fair that he got to torture him like this; it wasn’t fair that the German’s heart did not belong to him, but completely, totally, to Feliciano, while his mind and soul belonged to his nation. 

“I think that would be for the best.” Feliciano said, but it almost seemed as if he were sobbing. 

Those words felt like a knife was carving out his chest, and Ludwig hated the feeling so much, but he was also glad. As soon as the pain faded, it would be replaced by nothingness, and then there would be no more suffering. As long as he never returned to see Feliciano, he would be able to live in wonderful numbness until the war’s end. 

Without another word, Ludwig strode out of the room and down the hall, looking straight ahead of him, not at the soldiers guarding the halls, not at the clock on the wall that told him just how much time he had spent in the medical room. He had to distance himself, take himself away from such pain and love and sadness. 

He remembered a story Gilbert had told him shortly after Feliciano’s death, when it was late at night and they were alone in Ludwig’s office. He said that he had once killed Elizabeta while they were on the battlefield, because he was young, and tended to get carried away easily. To him, when they had been fighting, it had all just been a bit of a game, something they had done since they were children, but all of that changed when Liz fell, and he noticed the blood, and the stab wound in her stomach. 

_“But isn’t that our job? To fight, kill, and conquer one another?”_

_“It’s just not that black and white, Ludwig.”_

He wasn’t paying attention, caught up in his thoughts so badly that when a hand pressed up against his chest, stopping him, he stepped back, startled. His brother stared back at him, puzzlement and concern in his scarlet eyes. 

“Are you okay?”

Ludwig simply stared at him, unsure that he had heard Gilbert correctly, and if he had, unable to come up with a reply. Was he okay? Was this what he had been wanting?

If Feliciano couldn’t even stand to be near him for a long time, how could he ever come to trust him? He was horrified of what Ludwig could do, of what he did do. He only forgave him because he couldn’t hold onto his hatred; Feliciano was much to full of love and life for that. 

“Ludwig,” Gilbert said, this time more gently, “What happened?” 

The German pressed his lips together, tried to compose himself. This was just how history unraveled; this was just their job. He couldn’t afford to get upset of personal losses because he allowed himself to have feelings for Feliciano. This was a war, not a love affair, and they weren’t mortal. Those who were not strong enough to push away their emotions did not survive,

“I think he would rather have you check on him from now on.” Ludwig told his brother, suddenly pushing past him in an attempt to get to his room so he could just be alone. 

“What? Ludwig, wait, _wait_ a fucking minute, what’s going on?” 

Gilbert turned around, trying to catch up. Ludwig only continued walking, refusing to answer, because the conversation was over. There was nothing else left to say, Feliciano couldn’t stand to look at him anymore, so he wouldn’t be forced to. He had already been through enough torture. 

Ludwig wondered how much strength it had taken for the Italian to brush his tears away, to run his fingers through his hair, without seeming absolutely repulsed. He didn’t want to be hurt again, so he had acted gently, carefully. He must have been so frightened, so revolted. 

Suddenly, Gilbert grabbed his arm, effectively stopping him. 

“He doesn’t want to see me anymore. He would rather you be the one to check on him.” Ludwig told him, only wanting to escape the situation he was in as quickly as possible.

Gilbert was quiet for a moment, his grip loosening on his brother’s arm only a miniscule amount as he mulled over what he was just told. He was confused, and displeased with the fact that he was only gaining tiny bits of information, but Ludwig couldn’t stand to speak about what had happened. 

“What’s happened?” His voice was firm and demanding, but was still somehow filled with concern.

“Feliciano doesn’t wish to see me anymore.” Ludwig explained for the umpteenth time, exhausted of his brother’s prying, “I went to see him, and he told me that he would rather have you check on him than me.”

“Are you just overthinking this? Because that doesn’t exactly sound like something Feliciano would say.” His brother said after a moment.

Ludwig finally had enough of the interrogation, and forcefully yanked his arm out of Gilbert’s grip. He was just tired. Surely, once he woke up, this would all seem like a stupid, pointless idea that meant nothing. His relationship with Feliciano didn’t mean anything, because they didn’t have a relationship anymore. He had to focus on the war, on his country, and not on Gilbert trying to pry into his private affairs.

“He’s terrified of me. I don’t want to speak about this any longer.” Ludwig snapped. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that either you check on Feliciano, or nobody does. I don’t really care what you do.”

Miraculously, Gilbert didn’t try to follow him down the hall to his room, and left Ludwig to his contemplating. He knew he looked like a mess, he knew his brother was only worried, but he couldn’t speak about Feliciano anymore. It felt like millions of needles were being jammed into his heart when he did. 

Feliciano couldn’t trust him, how could he, after what Ludwig had done. He was scared of the lack of control the German had over himself. Why had he allowed himself to snap so easily? Why hadn’t he just walked out of the interrogation cell when he felt himself growing angrier? 

He had always been able to control his emotions, even when he was a child. But Feliciano brought something out in Ludwig that made him want to express everything; it made him feel like he could be honest. It made him want to strangle the love he felt for the Italian, because he couldn’t possibly be in love. And even if he were, how could Feliciano ever love him back? It was ridiculous, stupid.

But now, Ludwig could see that his emotions were real, and not just a small error in his system that would repair itself. He was in love, desperate and choking. He felt like he was drowning, but he didn’t want to be able to breathe. And now that he had surely ruined things with Feliciano, the feelings became twice as strong, and twice as painful. Because how could Feliciano ever love somebody who had hurt him so badly?

He couldn’t. Feliciano could never even begin to return the feelings Ludwig felt, because he was horrified of all that he had become. He was terrible; a disease that was spread only to those who were not cold enough to stop him, and Feliciano was so very warm. He was like home; he was like winter in Berlin, inside of a living room, where a family had their fireplace burning. He was like Venice in spring, when the weather just began to warm up and people were heard laughing and speaking in a language Ludwig had just begun to master.

He was beautiful, tragic, and wonderful, and he could force people to do his will just as easily as Ludwig could, but he used his innocent words and not his strength. He was everything Ludwig had ever wanted; yet he was so unreachable, like the stars, like an angel. 

It became clear to Ludwig, as he was lying awake in bed, that living without Feliciano would be like living without a heart pumping blood through his veins. It would be like an absolute Hell, empty and cold and painful. Eventually, it would be impossible. If he couldn’t immediately have his trust, he would earn it, no matter what the cost was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for all of the kind comments and kudos! I really appreciate it. I wasn't as happy with this chapter as I was with the last one, but I hope you enjoyed it. One more chapter! I was also wondering if anybody would want a bit of a story of these events from Feliciano's point of view? Let me know! :)


	3. Chapter 3

It was weeks later, during a break in the training, that Ludwig looked over to his brother and saw a conflict in Gilbert, something was clearly bothering him. He had been on edge all day, but Ludwig had been so caught up in his own thoughts that he hadn’t noticed that there was something off about him.

“What’s the matter?” Ludwig asked, his concern breaking away from Feliciano to Gilbert for the first time in a good month and a half.

His brother looked down, kicked at the ground for a moment, looked back up. He seemed not only agitated, but also exhausted. Dark circles marked underneath his eyes, and his skin was even paler than it usually was, if that was possible.

“I’m going east again in a few weeks. The Russians killed Liz.” Gilbert reluctantly told him, but trying to sound nonchalant. However, there was a tremble in his voice so small it was hardly noticeable that betrayed him.

“How?” Ludwig questioned, shocked. Surely, Ivan had to have been the one to do it; it was so hard to kill a nation. To have left Elizabeta dead, it almost had to be him.

“A sniper, straight shot through the head. They said she dropped like a doll.” Gilbert answered, staring straight ahead, “But we both know that’s not true.”

Ludwig could see rage brewing inside of his brother, hate and anger and vengeance. The chances of Elizabeta being shot just the right way to kill her, a nation, immediately, were incredibly slim. Russian snipers were well trained and plentiful, but nations hardly ever died that quickly. It was more likely that fourteen bullets ripped through her torso and then she lay on the battlefield for a while, blood pouring out of her mouth and wounds, before someone decided to put her out of her misery.

It made him think of Feliciano, lying on the concrete floor, motionless. It made him freeze up mentally, because all he could see was the death, all he could smell was the blood. It was sickening, tightening around him like a python and constricting all of his psychological pathways.

“Ludwig. Ludwig.  _Ludwig.”_

He felt something roughly shove his shoulder, and then the vision was gone.

“If you’re going to keep thinking about it, at least remember to breathe.” Gilbert told him, crossing his arms, “I think you’re more upset with yourself than Feliciano is.”

“How is he?” Ludwig asked quietly, mentioning the Italian in conversation for the first time since the night he visited him.

“Well, he’s nearly completely healed. Misses you.”

“That’s a lie.”

Gilbert audibly sighed, crossing his arms as he let his gaze wander across the scenery of the military base. Cold, bland, uniform. Part of him didn’t even dread going back east after spending time here, after seeing what the war had done to his brother. In a way, it had forced Gilbert to look at himself, to see how war changed himself, and it was sickening.

Ludwig refused to believe that Feliciano would do something so horribly tragic as to miss him. After he left the Italian alone for all that time, surely he found some sense, some hatred. Feliciano couldn’t miss him; it hurt too much to think that he would.

“Well, I’m going east, so if you need anything, you had better ask for it now.” Gilbert huffed, a bit annoyed with Ludwig’s melancholy, even though his sadness was well warranted. It was just hard to see him that way, because he was usually so solid, so in control of his emotions.

Silence passed between the two brothers. A breeze blew through the base, and leaves crunched somewhere. Fall was approaching. After what seemed like forever, Ludwig spoke again.

“I want to help him.”

 ~

His fists were clenched, not in anger, but in anxiousness. He shouldn’t have been here. He shouldn’t do this. Feliciano didn’t want him; he didn’t trust Ludwig and he didn’t want to see him. Yet Ludwig continued walking, his pace quick so he didn’t have enough time to stop and think about he was doing. This was necessary.

It had never occurred to him how blank everything was in the medical ward. Everything was either bleached white, or steel. It all felt very cold and detached, like the rest of the base, but in a different way, perhaps in a worse way.

He reached the door he had been fearing for weeks, and stopped in front of it for a moment, contemplating. It felt just like the first time he had visited, standing outside the room, knowing he could leave. Well, not that he really  _could_ leave, not when he was this close.

His fingers wrapped around the doorknob, and he turned it, hearing it click. It sounded so loud, so final, and he knew that he couldn’t turn back around. He stepped inside the room and let the door shut behind him, deciding to remain near it.

Feliciano was nearly completely healed, gazing at him with a mix of disappointment and exhaustion that nearly broke Ludwig’s heart, but he stayed controlled, kept his distance. Being too near the Italian would confuse him; it would only serve to hamper his goal.

“I know you don’t want to see me,” Ludwig told him, his voice even, but quiet, “But Gilbert is going back east in a few weeks.”

Feliciano considered his words for a moment, broke his gaze away, and stared at his fingers, which were threaded together in his lap. He didn’t seem angry, but it was clear that he didn’t want Ludwig anywhere near him.

“What’s happened?” He asked, not looking up.

Ludwig knew he was asking about Gilbert, about his departure, but for a moment his words almost seemed ironic. Really, what had happened? How had they ended up in these wars, in this bloodshed? Why were things allowed to get this bad?

He then thought of Elizabeta, dead from what was surely rapid machine gun fire and not a sniper, and the friendship she and Feliciano had. They had been close since he was young, or so he told Ludwig. She was somewhat protective of the Italian, and it almost seemed as though she took on an older sister role sometimes. Surely, Feliciano would be torn apart if he knew the truth.

But there were just too many secrets and lies that encircled Ludwig and Feliciano’s relationship as it was, and he deserved to know the truth. He cared about Elizabeta, and not telling him would only hurt him later on.

“Elizabeta was killed in battle a few days ago. He has to go back to lead the soldiers.” Ludwig explained, trying to get straight to the point.

Feliciano was silent, mulling over Ludwig’s words. Surprisingly, he didn’t begin to cry. His eyes weren’t even watering. It was clear to see that the war had hardened him into something more stoic, or exhausted so much that it was hard to feel anything for the moment. Selfishly, Ludwig hoped it was the latter. He didn’t want Feliciano to lose his emotions, he want him to change into something cold and indifferent and unwavering.

_I don’t want you to be like me._

“ _La pace sia con lei.”_ Feliciano quietly sighed. Ludwig barely caught the nearly whispered Italian words.

“What?” He asked. His Italian was getting better, but the words had been so soft that they were untranslatable.

“I just hope that she recovers easily.” Feliciano told him, his gaze returning to his hands. Ludwig wasn’t sure the Italian was just talking about Elizabeta, or also referring to his own less than perfect recovery process.  

Silence settled over the room again, their breathing being the only noise to break it. It was almost soothing to Ludwig, to just hear Feliciano inhaling and exhaling, to see his chest rising and falling. After seeing him dead two months ago, it was both comforting and tragic to see him alive and well again. The emotional scarring would stay for years to come, but Feliciano was going to be physically healthy, he wouldn’t dissolve, leaving all of Italy to his brother.

“Have the doctors told you how long it would take until you’re completely healed?”

“What are you trying to do, Ludwig?”

It should’ve sounded angry, but it just didn’t hit Ludwig that way. Feliciano looked and sounded exhausted, but he wasn’t snappish. He was tired of playing games, of having to be confined to this one medical room, of having only a few people to talk to, but he wasn’t bitter. He wasn’t full of hatred.

Ludwig leaned his back against the door, closing his eyes for a moment. What was he trying to do? He wanted to help Feliciano more than anything, but what if the doctors and nurses found out? How could he be sure that they wouldn’t coerce information out of the Italian?

“I want to tell you.” He murmured.

“Then tell me.” Feliciano replied, his words encouraging but not demanding. He let his eyes roam over the planes of Ludwig’s face.

“Do the doctors ever try to interrogate you?” the German asked, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling.

“No, usually Gilbert is here when they’re working, and even when he’s not they don’t say anything to me. I think they’re scared of him.” Feliciano explained, “Ludwig, what are you planning? “

“I…I’ve been trying to come up with a way for you to escape.” He admitted, looking back to Feliciano tentatively.

The Italian’s head jerked up quickly to stare back at Ludwig, as if he were shocked by the words he had just heard. It was almost like he didn’t believe he had heard them, because surely Ludwig wouldn’t risk this for him. It would be reckless, dangerous; it could put his nation into an even more desperate situation than it was in now.

“If anyone were to find out...” Feliciano trailed off, trying to wrap his head around this new proposition.

“I’d be punished. Probably killed.” Ludwig said, finishing the Italian’s sentence.

Quiet, again. It was a moment of understanding, of coming to terms with what had happened between them. Things would never be the same, but they didn’t always have to be tense. They could smooth things out at least a little bit, but at what cost?

“You don’t have to do this.” Feliciano whispered, “I won’t be angry.”

Ludwig wondered what god would have been so merciful as to send someone so kind, so thoughtful, as Feliciano Vargas to Earth. He wondered why that god would be so cruel as to force such innocence through wars, bloodbaths, and revolts. He was being offered a chance to leave, but he thought of Ludwig’s safety first, he thought of the man who murdered him.

But Feliciano didn’t understand, because Ludwig did have to help him. If he didn’t, this pain, this emptiness in his chest would never subside, he would never feel right. He wanted to help Feliciano, but he was doing this out of his own need as well. The guilt from what had happened was eating him alive.

And yet, there was still the pull of his nation, telling him to order the doctors to use the Italian as an experiment. Telling Ludwig to abandon him here, to make sure he wasn’t fed, to starve him. His loyalty to his nation whispered sweet words of glory if he would just forget everything he ever felt for Feliciano.

But Ludwig didn’t think he would ever be able to forget him.

He was staring at him with widened eyes that reminded Ludwig of the sun, burning, bright, and relentless. He could pin Ludwig with those eyes, which very well might’ve been the reason that the German had attacked one in the first place. He hated feeling of being trapped, and it was incredibly unfair that Feliciano didn’t have to lift a finger to box him in.

“I have to speak with Gilbert about this, but either I or him will be back by tomorrow.” Ludwig said, gripping the door handle behind him.

“Are you sure?” Feliciano asked softly, as if trying to tempt Ludwig out of his plan. He just nodded sharply in return, refusing to let himself have time to think as he turned to face the door.

“Ludwig.”

“Yes?”

“I want you to be here tomorrow.”

~

Ludwig knew that it was not a request or a question, but a demand. No matter how sweetly Feliciano’s voice rolled over the words, he was not asking for anything. He expected the German to visit him. So, because he had no other choice, he complied.

The halls were becoming ever so slightly less menacing every day he walked down them, their starkness still alarming but also familiar. Feliciano was waiting, and not in fear, not terrified that he would be beaten to death again. He was simply waiting to speak with Ludwig calmly. The German wondered if this meant that they were beginning to heal, if even in the smallest of ways.

Ludwig had spoken with Gilbert about helping Feliciano escape the German base earlier. Something soft, something that had not been seen in a long time, had shown through his brother’s eyes when he told him what he wanted to do. Gilbert had questioned him too, asking if Ludwig was sure that he was willing to put his life on the line, but he could not be tempted out of what he had already decided upon.

He neared the door of Feliciano’s room and paused, wondering if he should’ve come later. It was eleven in the morning, and knowing the Italian, he would probably still be asleep, or just waking up. And Ludwig didn’t really think that talking to someone who was nearly incoherent about an escape plan was a good idea.

However, he quietly pushed the door open anyways, not wanting to wake Feliciano if he was asleep. He could near him speaking in soft, slurred Italian, and as he stepped inside the room, Ludwig could see that he was praying, his hands clasped together, his eyes closed. It amazed him, how Feliciano could still find God in such a dire time.

The door closed, making a small  _click_ , but he only continued praying, and Ludwig wondered if he had even heard him come in, and if he should leave him some privacy. However, just as he was turning around, he heard Feliciano say  _amen_.

“You were going to leave me?” He asked, his head tilted to the side. Ludwig wasn’t sure, but he thought that he could hear an almost  _playful_ undertone to his light voice.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” Ludwig replied, shrugging. 

“Oh, don’t worry. I knew that you were here since the door closed.”

Sometimes, Ludwig forgot that Feliciano paid more attention to his surroundings than he let on. While the Italian could be scatterbrained, he was perceptive enough to not get lost in his own thoughts when it came to situations as dire as these. It bothered Ludwig, because he could remember a time when Feliciano would get so lost in prayer that someone would have to shake his shoulder in order to get his attention.

“The nurses are so nice. It’s a shame about what’s happened to their government.” Feliciano mused, fiddling with a small cross in his hands. When had he gotten that?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ludwig questioned, feeling just a miniscule amount of irritation at the Italian for the obvious, but innately innocent, jab.

“Don’t take it personally, we’re all poisoned. Lovino and I are just beginning to heal from what they did to us.” Feliciano replied, his thumb running up the length of the cross..

“Where did you get that?” Ludwig asked, deciding to change the subject as he stepped further into the room.

“One of the nurses let me borrow it for a while, she wanted me to give it back the next time I saw her. It’s a necklace.” Feliciano held up the delicate chain for Ludwig to see, its silver glinting.

While Ludwig was having a difficult time believing in much more than death and war, Feliciano could still pray like they were in peace. Perhaps religion was just so deeply ingrained into him, having always been a part of his history. Or it could’ve been a coping mechanism, something that helped him hold onto some hope that the world might be healed of its current illness.

And how had Feliciano managed to enthrall the nurse enough to willingly offer him it? Surely, the necklace was precious to her; it looked to be made of real silver and was probably the only sigil she had of her faith. Ludwig knew that the medics here wouldn’t treat him cruelly, but he didn’t expect them to  _like_  him, because he was supposed to be the enemy.

Feliciano had always radiated warmth, though. He made things seem less horrific, even when bombs were going off and Ludwig could hear artillery fire. Maybe he just wasn’t afraid of death, because he had seen how even the most powerful empires could fall like a house of cards.

“Do you think you could find the necklace I had before? I think I lost it in the interrogation room.”

Feliciano’s words, so simple and relaxed, broke Ludwig out of his thoughts and then froze him up again. He had just said it, like it was easy, like he hadn’t been brutally beaten and killed in that room. Like he just happened to  _misplace_  his cross there, when that was about as far from the truth as it could’ve been.  

“I-I’ll go see if it’s still there tonight.” Ludwig stammered, his words coming back to him slowly in his shocked state.

“ _Grazie.”_  Feliciano replied, still gazing at the small cross in his hand, somehow not noticing the German’s reaction to the recollection of the interrogation.

Ludwig sighed quietly. Somehow, even with this war exhausting him, Feliciano could tire him even further, with just his words. He wondered if he could send Gilbert to get the necklace, going back to the interrogation room could prove to be difficult for him.

“Can you tell when your brother is in pain?” Feliciano asked. Ludwig was thankful for the change of subject, but was worried about the far off look that the Italian had in his eyes. He was clutching the cross now, but staring at the wall, as if something had suddenly afflicted him.

“Yes, I suppose so. I can tell when he is injured or killed in battle or if he gains or loses land. I can tell things like that.” Ludwig explained, wondering just where Feliciano was going with this.

“I worry about him being lonely.” Feliciano said, “He reminds me of Lovino, always masking what he really feels. I think that he’s starting to get worn down, though. He looks tired.”

Ludwig remembered how empty Gilbert had seemed the day, yet so sad and so angry. Yet another precious part of his life had been taken away from him, perhaps the most precious part. Elizabeta meant more to Gilbert than the Prussian would ever willingly admit, but Ludwig heard how his voice trembled when speaking of her death. It nearly broke him.

But Gilbert was rather good at taking all the anger and hurt and self hate in his own soul and molding into something else. He put on his facades, made everyone think he was confident and self righteous and selfish. It was his escape from what he truly thought of himself.

Ludwig got the slightest feeling that Gilbert blamed himself for Elizabeta’s death. In his mind, he should’ve been there; he should’ve been on the front, not her. He should be the one dead, put out of his misery by Russia. Gilbert never brought back stories of how cruel or lethal the eastern front could be, but Ludwig could tell that it was simply something so terrible that he couldn’t speak of it.

Gilbert told him the day before, after they had finished formulating an escape plan for Feliciano, that he was taking Elizabeta to Austria to heal. Ludwig had never felt such a sense of pride and sadness for his brother, because it had to be a difficult conclusion to come to.

Gilbert loved Liz, they had been through everything together, and Roderich was the man to take her away from him. She chose Austria over him, or at least that’s what it had felt like. And now, just as he thought that they could start over, try again, war had driven another divide into their relationship. He was going to take her to Austria, because he knew that was what was best for her.

“I spoke with him yesterday.” Ludwig said, lacing his fingers together, “He thinks the English are gearing up for an attack near the base, and that there might be enough confusion in the next few weeks to sneak you out without anyone noticing. All we would need is a way to get you out of here.”

Feliciano looked down at his hands for a moment, his expression reluctant and thoughtful. Ludwig could see him toying with an idea for a moment, his eyes dancing around like they did when he was painting. He looked up at Ludwig suddenly, his mind made up.

“We could call Lovino.”

~

 

It took a long time to settle who would actually go about contacting Lovino, as neither Gilbert nor Ludwig had the best relationship with the older Italian. Even before the war, they had both been on shaky terms with him. Ultimately, it was decided that Ludwig would call him, as Gilbert had taken part in torturing Lovino while the Gestapo tried to get information out of him about the Italian Resistance not that long ago. He had escaped, but Lovino would probably still be (rightfully) angry about. 

 

Not that he’d be any happier to hear from Ludwig, that is, just less violent with it. Ludwig quickly decided he was not going to tell Romano about what he had done to his brother, as he wouldn't put it past him to burn all of Europe down to atone for what had happened to Feliciano. Ludwig really couldn't blame him.

 

Feliciano had given him the number to call, and Ludwig had left the base to do it discretely as possible as his old apartment in Berlin. It had taken some doing, and many of the officers were reluctant to see him leaving for the capitol at such tense times, but Ludwig made something up about retrieving important documents from his office and they eventually let him go, urging him to hurry back. 

 

So now Ludwig was sitting on the edge of his civilian bed in his civilian apartment, trying not to let himself get too comfortable as he dialed Lovino for the fourth time. Feliciano told him to keep calling the number even in Lovino didn't pick up and that eventually, he would answer.

 

The phone finished its calling cycle once again, informing Ludwig that once again, Lovino had not picked up. He was about to give up, assuming that Lovino was either not home or had been captured again and neither Gilbert nor Ludwig had been informed about it. However, he called the number once more, deciding that this would be his last try before stopping by his office to pick up some falsely-important documents. 

 

On the second ring, someone picked up. Ludwig felt his heart jump, he really had been suspecting no one to answer again. For a long moment, there was only breathing audible on the other end of the line. 

 

Finally, after what seemed like a full minute, Lovino said, “Who the fuck is this and what the fuck do you want?”

 

“Romano,” Germany greeted, feeling relief flood his body. 

 

“Oh, Germany. Goodbye-“

 

“Wait!” Ludwig interrupted, wanting more than anything to keep the Italian on the line. 

 

“What do you want? Your brother already has two of my fingers, and I need the rest of them.” Lovino snapped.

 

_Gilbert took two of his fingers when they tortured him?_

 

“Your brother is on a German military base.” Ludwig said, choosing not to dwell on the topic of Lovino’s interrogation and instead getting right to the point of why he had called.

 

Lovino was quiet for a moment.

 

“Why?” He asked, suspicious. He knew that Italy had surrendered to the Allies, so why would Veneziano still be hanging around the Germans?

 

“He’s was captured and brought there for interrogation.”

 

Ludwig had felt the temperature of a room drop a few degrees when Lovino was pissed off, but he didn't know the Italian had the ability to make that happen _over the phone_. He hadn't even said anything, and Ludwig already knew he was planning just how to kill the German, over and over again.

 

“If you hurt him.” Lovino growled out coldly, “I will make you suffer pain so unimaginable it will make your Gestapo look like they’re children.”

 

Ludwig wondered if he could get that in writing.

 

“Gilbert and I are planning out an escape plan with him.” Ludwig explained, because he _had_ hurt Feliciano, unimaginably so, but saying that would only enrage Lovino and make it harder to carry out this plan.

 

“Oh, wonderful, Gilbert. Tell him I said thanks for not taking the fingers off my dominant hand, that was really helpful.” Lovino hissed, clearly incensed. 

 

“Look,” Ludwig said, “We need you to be at this base to pick Feliciano up when he sneaks out. I know you and Gilbert and myself are on bad terms at the moment, but this is the only way to get your brother out of this situation.” 

 

Lovino paused. “How do I know you’re not just trying to lure me there so Gilbert can complete his collection and maybe even start working on my toes while you gather information from me?”

 

A dark part of Ludwig, the part that had been pushing him through this war, told him what a brilliant idea that was. He could have _both_ the Italians and torture information out of them about the Allies, who Lovino was surely in contact with. He might be able to turn the tide of this war with that intelligence.

 

He pushed that part of him away, though, repressed it, because that wasn't who he was. It was who he had been made out to be. It was the part of him that allowed him to beat Feliciano to death, it was the cold, unfeeling nothingness that gave way to rage. It wasn’t what he wanted to be.

 

“You’ll just have to trust me.” Ludwig finally said, not able to find any other reason that Lovino should willingly come so close to a German base.

 

“Go on.” Lovino replied, apparently sensing the sincerity of Ludwig’s voice.

 

Ludwig breathed a deep sigh of relief. If they could get Lovino on board with this, then half the battle was taken care of. “We know that England is scaling up for an attack on or near the base. When that happens, we need you to be at the south-west corner of the base to pick up Feliciano. Your connections with the Allies should provide you with information about the attack so you will know when to be there.”

 

“What about you?” Lovino questioned, “How will you be ready to sneak Feliciano out of the base at the drop if a pin?”

 

“We’ll just have to be prepared for anything.” Ludwig replied, knowing that this operation was going to be difficult.

 

“You had better be.” Lovino ground out, “I’ll be there, don't fuck me over on this.”

 

“You have my word.”

 

“Your word doesn't mean a whole lot to me anymore, Ludwig.”

 

There was silence over the phone for a few moments, and Ludwig considered ending the conversation and hanging up, but then Lovino spoke.

 

“Tell him I’m alright.” He said, tone even and strong, “And tell him I love him and that this will all be over soon.”

 

“I will.” Ludwig promised, and with that, he heard the sound of Lovino hanging up the phone. He did the same before getting up from the familiar bed and exiting the comforting apartment. For now, that apartment could not be a piece of his life. He was a soldier now and he had to live like one, act like one, think like one.

 

He headed out for his office to pick up documents that meant nothing more to him than a means to complete the story he had told his fellow officers back at the base. There was still the weight of guilt his shoulders, but it felt a little lighter now they he knew he had a good chance of helping Feliciano escape. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a good while since I updated this story, my sincerest apologies. I've been working on a couple other projects and didn't rediscover how much I liked this one until a little while ago. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave reviews!


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